


courage always rises

by shinykari (meinterrupted)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23851246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinterrupted/pseuds/shinykari
Summary: "There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me." - Jane Austen, Pride and PrejudiceLord Sandor Clegane, recently returned from the Essosi Wars, finds his new housemaid is not who she claims to be.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 26
Kudos: 146





	courage always rises

**Author's Note:**

> What do you get when you mix too many regency romance novels, a bottle of cheap sauvignon blanc, and coronavirus quarantine madness with the desire to see Rory McCann in a cravat? This, apparently. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Set in Westeros, but Westeros at the time of the ~~Napoleonic~~ Essosi Wars. 
> 
> Solidly show-verse, as much as something so far removed from canon can be said to be set in one or the other.

The girl—because Clegane would eat his godsdamn marching boots if “Mrs. Stone” was older than ten and six _or_ widowed, as she claimed—stood in front of him, her spine ramrod straight, eyes downcast, and hands clasped carefully in front of her. “Sit,” he grumbled, pointing to the guest chair.

She lifted her chin enough to meet his eyes, her face a courteous mask. “I’d rather stand, my lord,” she said, her tone perfectly respectful, for all that no one raised to service would ever argue with her employer that way.

Clegane slammed his fist on the solid oak desktop, making her flinch with fear in a way that both gratified and frustrated him. People had been afraid of him his whole cursed life, first for his hideous scars and massive size, and later for his sharp tongue and vicious temper and the rumors that followed being the younger brother of the third Viscount Clegane. That worked well enough on the battlefield, but on this godforsaken estate, he needed something else, something a chest full of medals and a leg full of Essosi lead didn’t provide. It had taken less than a fortnight of his raging for the steward, a drunken, shifty cunt Clegane was sure had been embezzling, to tender his resignation, leaving Clegane to try to sort out the mess that his brother’s mismanagement and his own neglect had made of the accounts.

When he’d got his hands on the books, though, they’d been in order. Oh, the place was still a shithole that needed more money put into it than it would ever generate, and Clegane had wanted to kill Gregor all over again for just how much the stupid fucker had lost dicing and whoring in Lannisport, but all the ledgers had been balanced, and someone had gone though and inventoried nearly the whole manor. It appeared they’d started doing the same for the tenant farms, but had been interrupted—apparently by his own arrival, if the dates on the pages were to be believed. The hand was small and neat, almost feminine, and Clegane knew at once it wasn’t the drunken steward’s. Whose it was, however, was a bit of a mystery, one he was determined to solve.

Most of the staff made their homes in the village, only coming to the manor house during the day, which left little time for clandestine accounting, so Clegane quickly discounted them. A few conversations with the housekeeper-cum-cook and her groundskeeper husband confirmed neither of them had the necessary education, even if they’d had the time. That left only the skittish maid Alayne Stone, who Mrs. Hawthorne claimed as a niece in a tone meant to put Clegane off further questions—and any other unsavory ideas the master of the house might have about pretty a maid in his employ.

Now that same pretty maid was standing in his study, looking as if she expected him to slice her head off any moment. Not that he could blame her, Clegane thought with a scowl. He’d certainly not given her any reason to trust him, snarling at her like the wounded old dog he was.

“I said sit,” he repeated, keeping his voice steady.

“Of course, my lord,” she said, lowering herself to sit on the very edge of the seat, her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands folded demurely in her lap.

Clegane bit back his instinctive response that he was no lord. Since his brother’s death, he was, in fact, Lord Clegane, gods help them all. He leaned back in his chair, looking at the girl in a way he’d not allowed himself before. Her skin was pale, though not unblemished; cinnamon freckles dotted her nose and her high cheekbones. Her auburn hair was pulled into a conservative knot at the nape of her neck, a basic style that nevertheless highlighted her slim neck and sharp jawline. Her hands, so neatly tucked into her apron, were white and smooth, not roughened by a lifetime of work as they should have been. More than her looks, though, was the way she held herself: she sat like a bloody princess, even in a rough-spun wool dress and a starched white apron. Only an idiot would mistake her for a servant.

Well, Clegane had never considered himself terribly smart.

“What’s your name, girl?” he asked.

She blinked once, and her posture relaxed slightly. “Alayne Stone, my lord,” she lied, bold as brass.

“What do you do here?”

She pursed her lips. “My aunt, Mrs. Hawthorne, hired me as a housemaid, but I’ve also trained as a lady’s maid. I mostly help in the kitchens.”

He snorted. She probably did know the duties of a lady’s maid, though he’d bet his bloody commission that she’d never trained as one. “What was your husband’s name?”

Her chin lifted just slightly. “Harry. He died of fever last winter,” she added.

“Where did you marry?”

His quick question caught her off-guard, and she stuttered for a moment before managing, “Gulltown.”

He didn’t bother to hold back a harsh laugh. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He watched her throat bob as she swallowed, the small movement fascinating for reasons he didn’t want to look at too closely. “I don’t understand, sir,” her voice steady. “I’ve not lied to you.”

He leaned across the desk, turning his face just enough that the scarred side was towards her. “If you’re a peasant from the Vale and Mrs. Hawthorne’s niece, I’m a bloody Targaryen.” He paused and watched her twist her hands in her skirt nervously, before standing and pulling the house’s main ledger book from a shelf. It made a loud bang as it fell onto the desk between them, and she flinched as he opened the book to the most recent entries and turned it toward her. “Tell me, Mrs. Stone, where you learned to run a noble household. And don’t give me a line of bullshit; a dog can smell a lie.”

She licked her lips and dropped her eyes to the book. Her cheeks had turned a rather fetching shade of pink, and Clegane suddenly wondered how far down that flush extended. He gritted his teeth to will away that image; the girl was obviously gently bred and deserved better than a scarred old dog panting after her.

Just as he was sure she wouldn’t answer, she said, “My mother taught me,” her voice just above a whisper. Clegane leaned closer. “I was raised in a noble house in the North, and she … she ran the household. She died,” she added, and there was real grief in her tone. She looked up, catching his gaze and holding it, somehow unafraid despite the scowl he wore. “No one was supposed to know. Mr. Hillworth was too busy drinking your cellar dry to bother paying attention.”

“Aye, and he was stealing too,” Clegane said, gratified by her sharp nod. “Do you like working in the kitchens?”

The girl tilted her head, obviously confused by the change in topic. “I don’t mind it too much, my lord,” she said, her tone perfectly even.

Clegane scoffed and relaxed back into his seat. “I told you not to lie to me, and yet you insist. Chirping away, like a bright Summer Isle bird, repeating only what it’s been taught.” Her lips thinned, and he couldn’t help but grin. He liked it when her true emotions leaked out from that courteous mask. “Don’t worry, little bird, I’ll not ask your name again. If you want to be Mrs. Alayne Stone, widow of Harry-who-died-last-winter-of-fever, you be that. On one condition.”

Her face fell as she dropped her gaze to her lap, and the anger that always simmered beneath his surface started to bubble. He knew what she thought, what everyone thought—his brother’s reputation and his own gruesome appearance always preceded him. “What condition is that, my lord,” she asked, her tone flat.

“It’s not fucking me,” he growled, causing her to jump and look back up at him with those clear blue eyes. “I’m giving you a promotion.” He pushed the ledger book closer to her and crossed his arms over his chest. “The estate is in need of a steward, and gods know I’m not qualified.” The little bird gasped, and he couldn’t help but notice the way her tits filled out her hideous, high-necked dress. He forced himself to look up, meeting her gaze just as her surprise melted into a pleased smile. “Don’t look at me like that, girl,” he growled. “I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart; it’ll take weeks to get a new steward out here from Lannisport, and years to find one half-way trustworthy. You seem to know your way around already,” he added, scowling as her smile widened.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he grumbled. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot of work to fix the mess my brother left us, let alone figure out how this shit estate can turn a profit. It won’t be an easy job.”

She smiled at him, and Clegane felt his chest tighten. “I’m willing to try, my lord,” she chirped, her soft smile like a stab to the gut.

Clegane swallowed hard. “Aye, so am I.”

**Author's Note:**

> There's a plot that goes with this scene puttering around in my head that will most likely never get written. It goes about as you expect: boy meet girl, boy realizes girl is lying about who she is and hiding from something very bad, boy hires girl to be the steward of his run-down estate, girl realizes boy is not nearly as much of an asshole as he tries to pretend, boy and girl fall in love, and then girl's past catches up to them, with Disastrous Consequences For All.


End file.
